somewhere hides a well
by seren23
Summary: "He's dead as a doornail," Molly continued raising her voice. "He's as dead as the Monty Python parrot. He has ceased to be and is pining for the fjords, Greg." Post-HLV. Molly Hooper decides that if she's going to have to follow along during the next stage of this particular pantomime, it's going to be on her own terms, darn it. With added Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade UST.
1. Chapter 1

A/N:This is going to be a three-chapter fic and I have most of it already written. I just couldn't seem to help myself. They are not mine. Title is from an Antoine de Saint-Exupery quote.

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_"What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well." - Antoine de Saint-Exupery_

When Molly was ten, she did a geography report on deserts, primarily because the idea of a place with little to no rain was highly intriguing for any resident of the oftentimes soggy United Kingdom. She especially liked the Atacama, a coastal desert in South America that was supposedly the driest desert on Earth, where the winds were so cold, they could freeze a body in an instant.

As she stared at the shaking image of Moriarty and his voice echoed in the morgue, it felt like very much she'd been dropped right smack in the middle of the Atacama as a fierce cold swept over and through Molly and her hands clenched the mug in her hands so tightly her skin squeaked on the ceramic.

_Did you miss me?_

No.

No, she had not.

She had the vague idea that staying in the empty morgue was most likely not the best defensive strategy, but she couldn't bring herself to move. She tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry and a frost settled deep in her bones. When her mobile rang, she jumped and tea sloshed out of her mug onto her hand.

Shaking the tea from her hand, Molly pulled her phone from her coat pocket with chilled fingers. She glanced down, saw Greg Lestrade's name, and swiped it on.

"It's not him," she said flatly into the phone.

"Molly," he said sounding grim and slightly out of breath. "Get somewhere public, I'm on my way."

"Greg, it's not him," she repeated. "It can't be him. He's dead."

"I know," he said before shouting at someone, "St. Bart's! Now!"

"He's dead as a doornail," Molly continued raising her voice. "He's as dead as the Monty Python parrot. He has ceased to be and is pining for the fjords, Greg."

"I know," he said again. "Are you moving? Please move, Molly. Now."

"It's not him," she said fiercely, her hands gripping her phone tightly while she stared at the telly. "I saw the inside of his _skull_!"

"Yeah," he said. "Believe me, I know. Go the canteen. Now. _Please_. We'll figure this out, I promise. After I hang up with you, I'm calling Sherlock. The wanker better still be in the country."

"Yes, Sherlock, great," she said flatly nodding as she left the morgue on autopilot, only halfway twigging onto Greg's comment about Sherlock. '_Did you miss me?_' ran on a loop through her head. She stopped halfway out the door which promptly swung into her back and said, "Oh, God."

"What?" he asked alarmed. "What is it? Molly?"

"It's just...Greg. I _count_ now," she said.

There's a pause then Greg replied, in a voice so gentle her eyes actually stung with tears, "Molly. You've _always_ counted. Now, get somewhere safe, yeah?"

"All right," she said quietly. "See you soon."

She hung up and got into the lift. She made it to the canteen without incident and headed straight for the coffee cart.

"Tea," she ordered dully. "As hot as you can make it."

The woman behind the cart nodded and said cheerfully, "Wonder what was with the telly earlier? Who was that guy?"

Molly stared at her and felt the urge to laugh at the fact that apparently Jim hadn't made an impression on quite everyone. However, she was afraid if she started laughing it would just turn hysterical, so she bottled it up.

"I mean, it was a neat trick," the woman continued, running boiling water into the paper take-away cup, "getting on all the channels like that. Was it some kind of joke?"

_If it was, I'm going to hate seeing the punchline_, Molly thought.

"Here you are then. That's £1.50," the woman said putting a lid on top of Molly's tea.

Molly dug two pounds out of her coat pocket and reached for the tea. She blinked when she realised she still held her mug from earlier.

"Oh," she said. She took the new cup of tea anyway.

"Still," the woman said as she handed fifty pence back to Molly. "That fella looked kinda familiar. Did you recognise him?"

"Yeah," Molly said before turning away. "I dated him once. He likes _Glee_."

She felt the disbelieving eyes of the barista watch her as she walked over to an empty table and sat down. She dropped her half-empty mug on the table and wrapped her hands around the flimsy cardboard cup. The heat eventually warmed her fingers and she took a deep breath, keeping her eyes on the canteen entrance.

She heard Greg's voice before she saw him and when he appeared, she tried to smile, but it probably resembled a grimace more than anything. He headed her way.

"Yeah, she's here and she's fine," he said coming to stand next to her. She leaned back in her seat to maintain eye contact with him. "We'll be there shortly."

He hung up and gave her a smile. "Damned thing interrupted the match."

"Bloody bastard," she commented.

Greg sighed. "You okay?"

"Not really," Molly said shaking her head slowly. "Greg. He's dead. This is some kind of hoax or joke or something. You don't survive that kind of trauma."

"I know," he said nodding. "We'll talk on the way."

"The way where?" she asked getting to her feet, leaving the full mug of tea next to the half-empty one.

"Baker Street," he said. "Looks like Sherlock's been pardoned and he wants to see everyone."

"Pardoned for what?" she asked as they left the canteen.

He glanced at her. "You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?" she asked rolling her eyes.

"Oh, well, he shot Magnussen," he said.

Molly stopped walking. "He did what?"

"Yep," he said as he kept walking. "In full view of MI6 and God knows who else, the daft idiot."

He turned when he realised she wasn't next to him. "Molly?"

"He what?" she repeated.

"He murdered Charles Augustus Magnussen," Greg said simply. "And he's being pardoned."

Molly blinked, attempting to process what he'd just said. "Why?" she asked eventually.

"Which part?" Greg asked. "The pardon or the murder?"

"Either? Both?" she said shrugging.

"Well, the pardon is because Sherlock Holmes has connections and more lives than a bloody cat," he said walking to her side. "The killing, though?" He shrugged. "No one's talking."

"But, you've got a theory, though," she said.

"Well, I am a detective, for whatever that's worth," he said, his lips quirking up into a small smile. "So, yeah, I've got a theory."

"Yeah," she said nodding slowly. "So do I."

After stopping by the morgue to grab Molly's bag and for Greg to look around the room to see if he could spot anything out of the ordinary or any surveillance equipment, they got into the waiting patrol car idling in front of the hospital. Greg had a quick word with a uniformed officer, who nodded and headed back into Bart's, before he opened the passenger door for Molly. She settled into her seat, clutching her bag tightly while he got in the driver's seat.

"Don't why I bothered, doubt I'd be able tell the difference between bad surveillance and Mycroft Holmes' surveillance," he said as he pulled smoothly onto the road

"I try not to think about it, to be honest," she said slouching down in her seat. "The entirety of MI6 has probably seen me singing along to Blondie by this point."

"Ah, Debbie Harry," he said grinning. "Very good choice."

Molly surprised herself by snickering and saying, "Taking you back to your wild youth, am I?"

"The things I wanted that woman to teach me, Molly," he said glancing at her.

"You're terrible," she said still snickering.

"I was, actually," he said. "Hence why I wanted some guidance."

Molly laughed so hard she snorted and then she gasped and closed her eyes. She bent over and pressed her forehead to her knees, her bag pressed against her chin.

"Molly," he said, his voice steady and even. "Molly, love, you need to breathe slowly. It's going to be okay."

"I don't think it is," she whispered.

"It will be," he said firmly. "I'll make sure of it, yeah? _We'll_ make sure of it."

She looked at him and he spared a second to look away from the road to glance at her.

"Okay," she said nodding and slowly raising her head. "Okay."

"Okay," he echoed. "Look, we've dealt with him before. We can do it again."

"Right," she said wishing she had an ounce of his confidence. "You really think so?"

He sighed and laughed. "Not really, but considering the alternative's too grim to contemplate, I'm going to attempt some optimism. For a change."

She made a face. "You might have a point."

"'Course I have a point," he said. "I'm a clever chap when I put my mind to it."

Molly smiled and her breathing evened out.

"Better?" he asked glancing over at her.

"A bit," she said nodding.

"My work here is done, then," he said throwing her a grin.

They arrived at Baker Street and Molly wasn't surprised to see a black town car pull away as they pulled up.

Molly sighed. "There are going be men in black hanging around my flat, aren't there?"

"Can't say the Holmes' don't know how to keep an eye on things," Greg said. "I think it's their dysfunctional way of saying they care."

"I think I'd prefer a nice box of Thornton's," Molly said as they got out of the patrol car.

"White or dark?" he asked as he held open the door for her.

"I quite like the truffles, actually," Molly said as they walked up the stairs. "The dark chocolate ones with the smooth centres."

"Oh, God," Mary's voice came from inside the flat. "Are you talking about truffles?"

Molly smiled as she walked inside. "'Fraid so. Can you eat chocolate again?"

Mary made a face from where she sat on the couch, her hands resting on her stomach. "No, it's awful and still makes me ill. I just want savoury stuff right now." She raised her voice. "Sherlock, do you have any pretzels?"

Sherlock lifted his head from his laptop and blinked at Mary from where his perch on his chair.

"Why on earth would I have pretzels?" he asked.

Mary shrugged. "You have three patellas in a milk bottle, you could have pretzels."

"You still have those patellas?" Molly asked staring at Sherlock. "You were supposed to return those."

"Will you slap me if I don't?" he asked rolling his eyes.

"I might," she replied narrowing hers.

"What do you need patellas for?" Greg asked.

Sherlock sighed and looked around the room. "Forget the patellas! Is no one here concerned about what just happened earlier today?"

"We're very concerned, Sherlock," John said emerging from the kitchen with a cup of tea that he handed to Mary. "Hullo, Molly, Greg. We're also attempting to lighten the mood considering that it appears that that bastard isn't actually dead."

"I also do really want some pretzels," Mary said.

"And Mary does really want some pretzels," John added.

"He's dead," Molly said quietly. The room went silent and Sherlock looked at her.

"He can't be anything else," Molly said looking at him. "_You_ of all people know this."

"Yes, I do," he said slowly, his eyes focussing on a point above her shoulder as he sifted through his memory. "You didn't perform the autopsy."

"No," she said. "But I saw the body. It was definitely him and he was definitely dead."

"These things have been faked before," John said, not quite looking at her.

"I know," she said swallowing hard. "But this was him. There are certain…markings that matched up."

"Such as?" Mary asked.

"He had a patch of freckles on his, um, hip, that I recognised," Molly said twisting the strap of her bag in her hands.

"Well, now that that's sorted," Sherlock said, steepling his fingers under his chin. "It appears we have someone new to deal with."

"Meaning you missed someone," Greg said bluntly.

"Yes," was all Sherlock said.

"Could be that this was all just a big distraction," Greg continued. "Someone having a laugh while they pull something else off?"

Sherlock glanced at him. "Very astute, Gerald; which is why you should return to the Yard and go over all of the cases that occurred within the last month and find any that might have a connection to Moriarty's network."

"Oh, easy-peasey. There's only a few thousand to look over," Greg said rolling his eyes.

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock said. "You'll send the cases to me and John and I will go over them."

"Cheers, mate," John said.

"I'll help," Mary said cheerfully. "I'm in the mood for some dry reading."

"You should be resting," John said looking down at her with such affection Molly felt a little uncomfortable. She wondered just what had happened in the last few days, because she had been under the impression that John and Mary weren't speaking.

"I'm tired of resting," Mary said smiling up at John. "Besides, I'm pregnant, not infirm. A little light police report reading is right up my alley."

"Of course it is," John said, gently running his hand over her hair. Mary hummed and closed her eyes, still smiling.

Molly looked away and caught Greg's eyes. He arched an eyebrow at her and she just shrugged and said, "I'd better head off. Make sure my cat's all right as I assume my flat has just been gone over with a fine-tooth comb?"

She glanced at Sherlock and he said, "You assume correctly."

"As I'm heading back to the Yard," Greg said as he glared at Sherlock, "I'll give you a lift."

"You don't have to," she said. "I believe I've got the British Government trailing my every move."

"You have," Sherlock said not looking up from his laptop.

"Do you want them following you?" Greg asked.

"Don't really think it's an option at this point," Molly said.

"It's not," Sherlock added.

Greg rolled his eyes.

"I'm just saying, I don't need an escort," Molly said. "And I don't want to put you out."

"You never put me out," he said lightly. "And I know you don't need an escort, but would you like one?"

Molly paused, because she did. She really did. Her hands were still cold and she could still hear Jim's voice in her head. She scrunched up her face and looked at him with chagrin. He just chuckled.

"Right, then," he said. "Come on, Doctor Hooper. Let's get you home."

"I'll be seeing those reports within the hour, shall I?" Sherlock asked.

"You'll be seeing when you see them," Greg said his voice rising. "You aren't exactly universally beloved at the mo'."

Sherlock huffed a little and slouched down in his seat.

"Look at that pout," Mary said chuckling. "Goodness gracious."

Molly shook her head and headed towards the stairs, Greg's hand came to rest on her lower back as he guided her out the door.

"Molly," Sherlock called.

She turned and peered around Greg. Sherlock raised his head and looked at her.

"Do be careful," he said. "You will most certainly be known to certain parties now."

"Lucky me," she said with a sad, little laugh. She waved her hand awkwardly and then walked down the stairs.

Molly was quiet throughout the majority of the ride to her flat as Greg talked to his team at the Yard. She closed her eyes and just listened to the steady cadence of his voice as he instructed his sergeants. She'd always liked his voice; liked the way it was simultaneously warm yet direct.

He'd always been a regular visitor to the morgue and in the past year, and she'd always felt comfortable in his presence. Despite whatever Sherlock said, DI Greg Lestrade was an extremely good copper and Molly had discovered that he had nearly infinite reserves of patience that came in very handy in their line of work. He wanted things done right and he wanted to make sure he was aware of all the details. There had been many a night when he'd dozed in her office while she completed an autopsy.

The fact that he was bloody attractive just icing on the silver fox-shaped cake.

He finished his last call with a sigh and pressed end on his hands-free. "God. My team's going to go into overtime again. HR hates that."

Molly smiled. "HR hates everything."

Greg chuckled. Molly watched his hands as they easily shifted gears as he drove the car almost effortlessly through the miserable London traffic. She'd seen a lot of hands in her life, and she could often tell a person's occupation by the state of their hands. She wasn't as precise as Sherlock was, but she knew hands.

Greg's hands had faint lines due to age stretched over his wrists but they looked strong and steady. She couldn't spot a single tremor, nor did they tense up when someone cut in front of their car. They were the hands of a competent person and something inside of Molly tingled.

_Naturally,_ Molly thought dryly. _Leave it to you to entertain long-buried lusty thoughts in the middle of a crisis. You are so bent, Molly Hooper._

"Nice to see John and Mary getting along again," he said, his voice cutting into her thoughts.

"Very nice to see," she asked. And that was something else. She had a very strong suspicion that whatever had happened with Magnussen had something to do with the Watsons. She frowned. "Do you ever feel like you're only getting part of the story?"

"All the time," he said, smoothly shifting the gears in the car. "But then again, they're only getting parts of our story in return."

"I wonder," Molly murmured.

He glanced at her. "Don't let yourself be a bit player in your own life, Molly." He winced. "That sounded patronizing. And I don't mean it that way. I have to remember to not do it, too."

Molly smiled. "It doesn't help that I've got such a tame life."

"Oh, yes," he said grinning. "Being a pathologist must be terribly boring. Bringing the odd person back from the dead must get so tedious."

"Shut it," she said, turning her head, but still smiling.

They arrived at Molly's flat and Greg insisted on going inside with her. They passed a man in a suit in the stairwell and the man nodded to them.

"He was around the last time," Molly murmured when they reached her floor. "Bloody Holmeses."

"I know you don't like it, but I feel a bit better about leaving you on your own knowing they're around," Greg said as Molly unlocked her door.

She paused and looked at him. "You do?"

"Course, I do," he said furrowing his brow. "Molly, you're a good friend and I care about you and if I thought I could get away with telling you to leave the city and go hole up in a cottage on the Isles of Scilly, I would."

She stared at him for a minute and he just stared back at her. She wondered if she'd missed something somewhere (probably had, knowing her) and what she'd need to do to find it. But she just blinked and said mildly, "Never been to the Isles of Scilly. Aren't they owned by the Prince?"

"That's the one," he said as she pushed her door open.

Molly looked around her flat, spotting her cat, Toby, instantly. "Oh, you poor lad. You're not going to come down from there until morning, are you?"

Toby gave a little warning growl from his perch on top of her bookcase and huddled further back behind an old anatomy and physiology textbook.

Molly shook her head and looked around her flat. She didn't spot anything amiss, but let Greg enter to do his own search. She dropped her bag on her kitchen table and took off her coat.

"Tea?" she called out.

"Better not," he said. "I do need to get to the Yard."

"Well, thanks for the lift," she told him as he walked over to her.

"Anytime," he said. He looked concerned. "And you will call, yeah? If you need anything? Or even if you don't need anything. Just…call me."

"I'll call," she said smiling.

"Good," he said. His brow furrowed. "You going to be okay?"

"Oh, sure," she said trying to sound casual. "I've got some pesto in the fridge, I'm home early, so I can get my washing done and oh, hell. This is really, really bad, isn't it?" She slumped a little. "I mean, really bad. Even if it's not Jim, which it isn't, it's someone who knew him and oh just _hell_, Greg."

"Hey, hey," he said stepping in close and ducking his head to make sure she looked at him. "It's bad. Not gonna beat about the bush. But you've done the impossible before and brought a man back to life. This will be a walk in the park."

"Still on that optimism lark, are you?" she commented, a corner of mouth quirking up.

He shrugged. "Yeah, well, we'll see how long it lasts." He put his hands on her shoulders. "We'll make it through this, Molly. Copper's honour."

"You just made that up," she said, fully smiling now.

Greg just grinned at her. Laughing a little, on impulse, Molly rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

He looked so surprised and pleased when she pulled back that she paused and then leaned forward again and this time he met her halfway.

Their mouths slid against one another and Molly fisted the front of his jacket in her hands. His hands cupped her face and gently tilted her head to the side and her lips parted at the slightest brush of his tongue. She pressed in as close as she could to him, soaking up the warmth that just radiated out from his body as he stroked his tongue alongside hers.

It was intense. It was exactly what she needed. It was amazing and overwhelming and it was…completely unfair and oh, God, what was she doing?

Molly pulled away with an, "Oh, God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't-"

"Whoa, whoa," he said breathlessly while his hands still cradled her face. "Breathe, it's okay."

She breathed in and out and couldn't stop herself from rubbing her cheek against his palm.

"Now," he said, his voice dropping into a lovely low register. "Are you sorry because you didn't mean to kiss me at all? Or because you wanted a kiss and any port in a storm will do? Or because you didn't mind kissing me but you're not sure what you want out of it?"

Molly thought, then said, "That last option. I definitely don't mind kissing you and I have no idea what I want." She paused. "And maybe partially the any port in a storm thing, too. Oh, God, Greg, I'm such a _mess_."

He chuckled and pulled her close. She sighed and tucked her arms between her chest and his, pressing her forehead to his sternum.

"Molly, you're not a mess." She snorted and he amended his statement. "Okay, you're a bit of a mess, but not without a good reason. Can I ask you something?"

"Considering you've just properly snogged me, you can ask me anything you want," she said without thinking.

"Hmm, snogging leads to carte blanche question time," he said and she could feel the smile in his voice. "Good to know. Are you still in love with Sherlock?"

Molly had always suspected Greg was something of a boxer because clearly the man never pulled his punches.

"No," she said softly shaking her head, her nose brushing against his shirt. "He's still…compelling and I'll always help him if he asks, but no. I'm not in love with him."

"All right, then," he said pressing his lips to the top of her head.

"Are you still married?" she asked.

"Divorce was finalised two weeks ago," he said.

She lifted her head and he looked at her. "That's pretty recent," she commented.

"It is," he said, and then he chuckled. "I'm something of a mess, too, you know."

Molly smiled and good God, but she wanted to kiss him again. "So, what do we do?"

"We go slow?" he said shrugging. "Or we just chalk it up to a bad day and see what happens next."

"Do you want to chalk it up to a bad day?" she asked, her stomach clenching in preparation of the answer.

"No," he said slowly shaking his head. "I'm going to chalk it up to something I've wanted to do for a while and something I'm glad happened even if we don't do anything else."

It was the perfect answer. It took the pressure off of her, yet still left her in charge of any further action.

"Oh, you're good," she breathed.

He laughed and she shivered at the lovely vibrations it sent through her body. "I'm out of practice and I'm a decade older than you are, at the very least, and I haven't actually dated in far too long. The last thing I am is good."

"I think it's precisely what you are," she said seriously. She was delighted to see his cheeks redden slightly and he cleared his throat.

"Yeah, well," he said. "So, we take this as it comes. All right?"

"All right," she said nodding.

"Do you…want me to call you later?" he asked looking hesitant for the first time.

"Yes, yes, I do," she said nodding. "Please."

He smiled in what appeared to be relief. "My pleasure."

She saw him off and after she'd closed and locked her door, she pressed the backs of her hands to her warm cheeks and smiled.

So…Greg Lestrade. An actual possibility. Who would have thought?

_Anyone with a brain?_ Molly thought bitterly. _You were so blinded by Sherlock and his drama and then Tom and being so fiercely determined to be 'normal', you completely forgot to just live your life. And Greg is…_

"Really rather lovely," she said out loud.

Her cat emitted a mournful little meow and she looked up at him. He'd edged out from behind the textbook and peered down at her.

"If I drag a chair all the way over there and attempt to pick you up, am I going to get a scratch on my arm for my troubles?" she asked him.

He warbled a little and she rolled her eyes.

"Right," she said grabbing her chair.

A quarter of an hour later, Molly glared at her cat, who was now on the floor and calmly eating his dinner, while she applied some anti-bac to a long scratch on the top of her hand.

However, it wasn't really Toby's fault that men in black had completely disrupted his daily eighteen hours of dozing.

"Goddamn it, Jim," she muttered. "You absolute bastard."

The chill from earlier returned and she marched to her bathroom to take a very hot shower.

She sulked through her shower and through feeding Toby. She glowered at her re-heated leftover pasta and then at her telly she tried to focus on a _Lewis_ re-run.

Molly had really had enough of getting dragged into other people's dramas and while she wouldn't have done anything differently, the last thing she wanted to do was get involved in the ongoing vendetta that was Sherlock Holmes versus Jim Moriarty.

_Did you miss me?_

_What was it going to be this time?_ she wondered. _A battle on top of the London Eye? A duel with rapiers drawn at Buckingham Palace? I know I don't have much of a private life, but I don't think I'm quite so desperate to participate in this particular pantomime again. I'm not ready to 'Boo' and 'Hiss' and shout 'He's behind you!' all over again._

Suddenly, Greg's words overpowered Jim's.

_Don't let yourself be a bit player in your own life._

Molly muted the telly.

_Don't let yourself be a bit player in your own life._

She eyed her laptop. It was probably the most inconvenient time to attempt to have a life, but if she didn't do it now, when would she? Shouldn't she try to claim back a little something for herself before the curtain rose again?

Molly grabbed her laptop and typed in London Meet-ups. She scanned the list of groups. Mediation? No. Singing groups? She couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Art? Maybe. A figure-drawing class might be interesting. Ramblers? Possibly.

Oh.

Geography lectures. She scanned the group's description. People picked a region of the world and gave a quick seminar every other Tuesday evening.

Her ten year old self perked up.

It could be utterly boring and she didn't really have the time to do any extraneous research, right?

_But,_ ten year old Molly said somewhat plaintively, _we've always wanted to know all the capitals of all the countries. It would be helpful for pub quizzes!_

She checked the group's schedule. The next meeting was next Tuesday. She could just go and see if it was interesting.

Before she knew what she was doing, she registered for the group and a lovely feeling came over her. The topic could end up being a complete bore and she'd most likely be the youngest person in the room but…it was something different. It was something completely _hers._

She smiled, sank back into her couch cushions, turned the volume back up on her telly and tried to remember the names of all the deserts.

It also managed to block out Jim's voice for the rest of the evening.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly looked around the pub where the geography seminar was taking place, before heading to the bar and ordering a half pint of Guinness. Then she edged her way to the room upstairs and took a seat towards the back.

An older gentleman with a shock of white hair on his head smiled at her and walked over.

"First evening joining us?" he asked holding out a hand. "I'm David Parker. Welcome to our little club."

"Oh, thank you," she said shaking his hand. "Um, Molly Hooper. I'm…just trying things out."

"Always good to have some new blood in the group," he said. He leaned forward. "If I hear another seminar on the Galapagos, I may resort to drastic measures. What's your field of study?"

"Pathology, actually," she said. David blinked and she laughed a little awkwardly. "I'm, ah, trying something new."

"Well, that's, well," he chuckled a bit. "We're happy to have you, Molly. Any geographic regions you fancy in particular?"

"I've always rather liked deserts," she said hesitantly.

"Oh, we haven't had a good look at a desert in some time," he said nodding. "Excellent. I'll look forward to hearing from you on the subject."

"I'm not-" she tried to protest, but he walked off greeting another member. Molly fell silent and sipped her drink, wondering if she'd made a mistake in coming,

_You're already here, so you might as well stay,_ she told herself and she settled in to watch the other members arrive.

She blinked in surprise when Sally Donovan came in shortly before the seminar was to start. She greeted a few people briefly and when she looked around the room, her eyes widened when she spotted Molly. Molly just raised her glass a little. Sally blinked and then headed her way.

"Hey," Sally said looking confused. "So…"

"Just giving it a go," Molly said quickly. "I…wanted to learn something different."

Sally thought for a second and then nodded. "I know what you mean."

"Do you want, um, a seat?" Molly asked, shifting her coat.

"Yeah, all right," Sally said with a shrug before sitting down.

They sat in relative silence and listened to the others give talks and slowly, Molly found herself relaxing. An older woman in a lime green pashmina shawl gave a lovely talk, complete with a Powerpoint presentation, on the Mariana Trench that had Molly leaning forward in her seat.

Her talk was followed by short talk on the coastline of Madagascar and Molly clapped respectfully along with the others.

David Parker got up, thanked them all for coming and ended with a 'Please, come down and join us for a pint, everyone.'

Molly glanced at Sally who was looking at her thoughtfully.

"Are you here for a case?" Molly asked hesitantly.

"No," Sally said. "We helped them out last year and it's interesting and, well, I was told that I should try something new."

"By who?" Molly asked.

Sally made a face. "My nan. She says I need to do more than just chase after unsavoury types."

"Mine calls me asking if I still cut up dead bodies," Molly said.

Sally snorted and nodded. "So, you're not here for a case, then?"

"No, this is for me," Molly said firmly.

"Nice, me, too," Sally said getting to her feet. "Pint, then?"

A half hour later, Molly had met most of the other members of the group and had tentatively signed herself up to give a talk on Death Valley at a meeting in three weeks' time.

She found herself back by Sally and blinking a little. Sally just laughed.

"They're an enthusiastic bunch, aren't they?" she said to Molly.

"It's somewhat refreshing," Molly said looking around. "I'm used to, well, you know what I'm used to."

"Tell me about it," Sally said. "No one tends to stand up and express their opinions at you, do they?"

Molly giggled above the rim of her glass. "Not as such."

"Unless, of course, the great ponce detective turns up," Sally said starting to glower.

Molly set her pint down. "Sally-"

"I know, I know. I _know_, all right? I shouldn't let it get to me," she said holding up her hands. "It's just… God, do you know what it's like being a woman in a traditionally male profession?"

Molly paused, her drink halfway to her lips, and said in a dry tone, "No, Sally, haven't a clue."

Sally winced. "Right. Sorry. So, you do know. And so you know that feeling like they're all just waiting for you to screw up?"

"The one where they try to look like they aren't watching over your shoulder but really are watching over your shoulder?" Molly said.

"That's the one," Sally said. "Well, imagine it's your second month on the job, you've just found something horrendous, but you know precisely how to start the investigation, you've made your list, you're about to present it to your guv, when this pale, tweaked out mess of a fellow comes out of nowhere, says a bunch of nonsense that happens to solve your case and then proceeds to rip your entire background to shreds in front of the team you've been working your arse off to impress."

"And he's still breathing?" Molly asked, her eyebrows rising. She'd always suspected that something like that had happened, but had never had the courage to ask either party. Hell, Sherlock had probably deleted the entire thing anyway.

"It was a close thing," Sally said flatly. She set her pint down on the table with a clunk. "I'm not stupid, Molly. And I'm honestly not one to ignore a lead just because the source is questionable, but there is something about that man that just…argh."

"I know the feeling," Molly said. "But look. The man has no impulse control or internal filter and he is never going to change."

Sally waited before saying, "That's it? Did you just tell me to suck it up and deal with it?"

"Yep," Molly said with a sigh. "I've found my life has gotten much nicer since I did that."

Sally frowned. "That's bollocks."

"On the plus side, it'll drive him mad wondering what he did to encourage such neutrality," Molly said.

"Ooh, that's a thought," Sally said brightening. She shook her head. "Right. You're right. And Christ, I come to these meetings so I don't think about work and here I am, thinking about work."

"Sorry, my fault," Molly said.

"No, it's mine," Sally said. "I need to let things go. Therefore, no more talk about the blokes at work or the blokes that I arrest or the blokes that interfere with investigations."

"A sort of 'Sally's Okey-Dokey No Place for Blokies Karoake'?" Molly offered. "Without the karaoke, of course."

"A fan of Miranda Hart's, are we?" Sally said grinning.

"A fan of adding 'are we' to the ends of sentences, are we?" Molly retorted.

When Sally dissolved into actual giggles, Molly couldn't help but join in and another weight she hadn't known was on her shoulders lifted, too.

She arrived home a bit later and more squiffy than she'd planned on, but she was smiling when she crawled under her duvet and fell asleep planning to research the soil layers of Death Valley for her presentation and planning to text Sally the next day to meet for coffee sometime.

Three nights following her foray into the geography group, she trudged her way up the stairs to 221B.

"Evening, everyone," she called.

"Molly!" Mary said from her position on the sofa. "You're a doctor!"

Molly froze. "Um, well. Sort of? I'm not the sort you probably want, though."

Mary waved her hand. "You'll do. Tell himself over there that I'm perfectly fine to be popping down to the shops on my own."

Molly glanced at John who was glaring at his wife with his arms crossed over his chest.

"I think that you should do whatever your OB-GYN has recommended?" Molly offered. "And always make sure you tell John when you pop out?"

"A perfectly mediated answer from Molly Hooper," Sherlock intoned from the hall, "as expected. Now, may we proceed?"

"Proceed with what, exactly?" Greg said as he came up the stairs behind Molly. "I just received a text that said: _221B. This eve. Imperative. _Hiya, Molly. "

"Hullo," Molly replied and ooh, was that a bit breathless? Darn it. She hadn't actually seen him since The Kiss and apart from a few texts during the day and one very long phone conversation, she wasn't altogether sure where she stood.

But Greg just grinned at her and held out his hands to take her coat. She shrugged it off and handed it to him and he draped it and his own on the hooks.

"We are here this evening to discuss who was behind the video stream of Moriarty," Sherlock said walking to his wall covered with photos and papers.

Molly hurried over to sit next to Mary who was patting the space next to her. Greg leaned against the sofa and frowned.

"All right, then," he said to Sherlock. "On with it."

"Oh, this feels a bit like school, doesn't it?" Mary commented as she adjusted her back against the couch. "Will there be a quiz, sir?"

Sherlock gave her a quick glare and Molly bit her lips to hold in a laugh. He clicked the remote in his hand and the image of a man appeared on the screen. Molly blinked and took in the blue eyes and lean face. He looked almost delicate, but sharp somehow, the lines of his cheekbones were perfectly defined and his eyes were astonishingly blue.

"This," Sherlock said triumphantly, "is Sebastian Moran. You will recognise the name from the gentleman last year who made the attempt. This is his half-brother, same father, different mother. While the connection has never been made public, they are very much related."

He clicked the remote and Moran appeared again, this time in uniform.

"For a while, Sebastian was his own man, quickly scaling the ranks within the Army, and then accepted into the SAS," Sherlock looked out at his audience. "His specialty is sharpshooting."

"A lovely hobby," John said mildly and Mary shifted in her seat.

"Moran the Younger was a decorated soldier within the SAS and eventually specialised in engineering once he was discharged," Sherlock continued. "His mother, originally from Ireland, a teacher, in fact, moved to England when he was a young man and shall we guess who one of his young school chums was when he was growing up?"

"Moriarty," Greg said flatly.

"I believe that they kept their partnership quiet," Sherlock said. "In reserve, for something like this. I believe that I can link him to several industrial accidents and missing equipment that your team has been following, Lestrade. I'm not sure what he's planning, but, I do know this," he turned to the screen. "He is the man we're looking for."

Molly studied the picture and compared it to Sherlock's profile.

"Blimey," she muttered.

"It's like the battle of the cheekbones, isn't it?" Mary murmured.

Molly snickered and Mary grinned. Sherlock turned his head and glared.

"Ladies, if you don't mind."

"Yes, sir," Mary said while Molly said, "Sorry, sir."

Both John and Greg snorted.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Have you had any odd cases lately, Molly? Any involved with accidents in warehouses? Or the docks? Anything industrial?"

Molly frowned as she thought. "He didn't come to me, but a man in his late fifties came in as I was leaving with severe blunt force trauma to his head as a result of a steel beam falling from a piece of rigging."

"Excellent," Sherlock said. "I'll be by tomorrow to examine him."

"He's not on my schedule, Sherlock," Molly said. "He's Dr Murton's."

"No," Sherlock said. "Fix it. Only you can examine him. Bat your eyes at him and get him to switch with you."

"I'm not going to bat my eyes at Dr Murton, Sherlock," Molly said rolling said eyes. "I can just ask, you know."

He waved a hand, clearly having moved on and currently beckoning Greg over to look at something.

"I don't think he realises that the majority of people can get things done without resorting to subterfuge," Mary said in a quiet voice.

"Why would he?" Molly said. "The real world isn't as much fun for him as the one he creates in his head."

Mary snickered. "Isn't that the truth?"

Greg was nodding at whatever Sherlock was saying and pulled out his phone to make a call.

"Wish this was all over, though," Mary said, almost under her breath. Molly glanced at her and despite her words, she saw a glint in Mary's eyes as she studied the wall in front of them. It looked like…eagerness. Almost predatory. Certainly as though this was not the first time Mary had been on the trail of someone. A few more things fell into place in Molly's mind.

"You're not what you seem, are you?" Molly asked her voice quiet and calm.

Mary looked at her, at first in surprise, then with a bit of melancholy. "Is anyone in this room what they seem?"

Molly gave her a smile and nodded in understanding. No, no one in the room was exactly what they seemed. She certainly didn't look like someone who could bring a man back from the dead. She glanced around the room and her eyes fell on Greg who was pacing by the stairs, still on his mobile.

_He is_, she thought, a warm feeling spreading through her chest. _He is exactly what he seems_.

Greg looked up and met her gaze. He kept talking while he looked at her and she didn't blush or look away, she just watched him.

Eventually, a corner of his mouth quirked up a little and he winked at her. It was so quick and unexpected; a giggle was startled out of her.

"Sorry," she said waving a hand in the air when people looked over at her. "Just…gallows' humour. Or something."

"Or something," Mary said with a nudge of Molly's shoulder. "Something to share with the class?"

"No," Molly said lifting her chin. "At least…not yet."

Mary's eyes lit up and she grinned. "Are we going to need to have a girl's night out at some point?"

Molly just smiled.

After listening to Sherlock expound on his theory of keeping an eye out for any cases in and around industrial areas, the group disbanded. Molly headed out at the same time as Greg, leaving John to help Mary up off the sofa while Sherlock stared at the image of Sebastian Moran from where he perched on the edge of an armchair.

"What's this I hear about you and my DS?" he asked Molly as they headed outside.

"Oh, we're in a geography meet-up group," Molly said smiling. "Just sort of ran into each other."

"Oh, yeah," he said as they walked down Baker Street. "We had a case with them about a year ago. One of them robbed the other of some valuable maps. Caused a bit of a to do amongst the group. I half wonder if Sally doesn't go to make sure they stay on the straight and narrow."

"I think she likes not being reminded of work," Molly said. "That's why I went."

"Is this okay, then?" he asked.

"What?"

"Me walking with you," he said. "Don't want to be a bad reminder of something."

"You could never be a bad reminder of anything," she said startled and blinking up at him. "You're lovely, Greg. I _like_ being around you." He came to a stop and just stared at her and she winced and covered her mouth with a hand. "Oh, didn't mean to say quite that much. That was… I mean… I can't stop thinking about the other night and I mean that in a good way and I want it to happen again. You're not just a port in a storm. You're wonderful and… Oh, crumbs, that _was_ a bit much, wasn't it?"

"Do you mean it?" he asked seriously. "You want this to happen?"

Molly nodded, her hand still covering her mouth.

"Then it wasn't too much," he said curling his index finger around her wrist and tugging her hand away from her mouth.

"Good," she said quietly. She realised that somehow their hands had entwined and she glanced down and then back up. He just raised his eyebrows as if to say, 'Problem?'

She answered his silent query by curving her hand around his and starting to walk again.

They walked the length of an entire row of terrace houses before she spoke again.

"I'm not very good at this," she said.

"At what?" he asked.

"Dating," she said chuckling. "I honestly thought that Tom was the right bloke for me. I really, really did."

"There wasn't anything wrong with him, Molly," he said.

"No, just me," she replied.

He stopped and tugged her close. "Molly Hooper, you have lived an extraordinary life and done and seen some extraordinary things. You shouldn't settle for something just because you think you should. Which is what it seemed like with Tom and please feel free to deck me if I'm talking bollocks, yeah?"

"You're not," she said softly. "You're talking complete sense."

"There's nothing wrong with you," he said stepping in close.

"There's nothing wrong with you, either," she said, tipping her head back to meet his eyes.

He laughed and looked down at his shoes. "Well, that's up for debate."

"No," she said tugging on his hand. "It's not."

He looked up at her with something like bashfulness and said, "I'd like to try this out, Molly. I know the timing is crap, and I won't have anything resembling free time in the foreseeable future, but I'd like to go for it. What do you say?"

_This is it, Molly, my girl_, she thought. _Now or never._

She rose up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his and then dropped back down. "Let's go for it, then."

The grin she got in return was nearly blinding and the kiss that followed sent sparks through her nervous system and she found herself giggling somewhat madly into his mouth. He pulled back with a grin.

"Every impulse I have is telling me to get you to a bed this minute," he said pressing his forehead to hers.

Molly's eyes widened and he shook his head.

"Yeah, I know. We're gonna go slow, yeah?" he said. "Might be a good idea for me, too."

"Yeah," she said nodding. "Slow is…probably best?"

"Yeah," he said. He made a face. "God, I hate being responsible."

Molly grinned and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "I know, but it's a very good look for you. Sexy, even."

"Oh, well in that case," he said, leaning down to kiss her again. They both froze when his stomach rumbled. "Christ. I can't remember when I last ate. I'm starving. You?"

"Mm, yeah," she said remembering her sad little lunch of Ryvita's and cream cheese.

"What do you fancy?" he asked starting to walk backwards down the pavement, pulling her along.

"Could really go for a chicken tikka, if I'm honest," she said.

"Curry night at Weatherspoon's too working class for you?" he asked.

"You kidding?" she said smiling. "They have far better cheesecake than the posh places. Lead on, Detective Inspector."

True to his word, Sherlock arrived the following day shortly before noon to check on the body Molly mentioned the night before. He swooped into the morgue in his usual fashion, John sporting a slight abrasion on his cheek and Greg holding a handkerchief to a cut on his right eyebrow.

"Oh, my God!" Molly said, staring at his brow and wanting to go over, but couldn't due to her hands being full with stitching the man on her table back up. "What - ?"

"Some lads took exception to us asking them some questions down by the river," Greg said with a grin. "It's fine."

"You're bleeding," she countered.

"Don't worry," he said. "I've had worse."

"Oddly enough, I don't find that very comforting," she said tying off her last suture on the Y-incision.

"Don't fuss, Molly," Sherlock said coming to stare down at the body. "It's brilliant!"

"How is that brilliant?" Molly asked.

"We've got them on the defensive," Sherlock said, a gleam coming to his eyes. "They know we're on to them."

"Or they were just naturally suspicious of the coppers coming knocking," Greg said. "We don't have anything to actually link them to Moran or Moriarty. At the moment, I'm only holding them because they took a swing at me, not because of any evidence of any wrongdoing."

"We'll find it," Sherlock said. "Molly, tell me everything."

"Well, I've run the tests you asked for and they're all negative," Molly said handing the printouts to Sherlock. "This was truly an industrial accident."

"Impossible," he said sharply, his eyes scanning the documents.

"Sorry, the data is saying otherwise," she said. "The impact of the beam on his head is what killed him. It hit him bang on his forehead and the damage is consistent with what happens when something very heavy hits you after falling from a great height and can I please fix that?"

She stopped looking at Sherlock and focussed back on Greg who was still dabbing at his head wound and making an utter mess of it.

He lowered his handkerchief and smirked. "Not tidy enough for you, Doctor Hooper?"

"No," she said firmly. "Go sit down and let me clean you up."

"Ma'am, yes ma'am," he said slowly, his smirk easing into a grin and oh, didn't that do something inexplicably lovely and flirty to her insides? She gave him a quick glare that was most likely derailed by the blush in her cheeks and grabbed her first aid supplies.

"Feel free to run the tests again," she told Sherlock who was still scrutinizing the reports. "And look at the wound to your heart's content."

Greg had perched on a stool and when she approached him, he deftly lowered the seat, so she stood over him just enough to get to his forehead easily.

"Thanks," she muttered.

"You're welcome," he said back, his voice going into that low register that made her skin tingle and her pulse simmer.

She bit her lip and opened a sterile wipe packet, then gently cleaned around the wound, making sure to wipe up the streaks of blood down the side of his face. She got a new wipe and frowned as she cleaned the wound itself.

Greg winced slightly and she cringed.

"Sorry," she said. "Been awhile since I've done this to someone who can actually feel it."

"It's fine," he said. "Been awhile since anyone's fussed over me."

Her frown deepened. "I'm sorry. That's not good."

"Well, can't say I didn't have a hand in the whole mess," he said, smiling a little.

"Still," she said. "I'm sorry you had to go through all of the -" she paused, because she didn't really know how to classify his wife's affairs without sounding mean, so she settled on " - the bad stuff."

"Yeah, well," he said. "It wasn't all bad, you know. Once upon a time, it was good. Really good. Was actually happy for a while there."

Molly smiled and stepped a bit closer to inspect the wound's depth. "I'm glad. You should be happy. You deserve it."

"So do you," he said simply.

Molly suddenly realised that she was very close indeed and that his hands were oh so lightly, grasping her hips. It was a gentle warmth and it completely flooded her body. She felt her cheeks warm and she bit her lip to hold back a smile. They'd ended their dinner the previous night with a chaste kiss before Molly caught the Tube back to her house and while she was happy they were taking things slowly, she found herself eagerly wanting time with him. And judging from the way he was looking at her and flexing his hands on her hips, he felt the same.

"Is this you still taking things slow?" she asked as calmly as she could, carefully holding a piece of gauze to his brow then affixing some tape to the edges.

"No," he said. "This - me touching you - is just because I couldn't stand not touching you. But I can stop if you want me to."

When she felt like she had enough internal equilibrium, she lowered her eyes to look at him and he grinned up at her and she knew that she'd probably do anything for him when he grinned like that at her and suspected he knew it.

"I don't want you to stop," she said not able to hold back a giggle. "And you really are such a lad."

"'Fraid so, Doctor," he said, his hands tightening slightly on her hips. "Think you can stand another evening with me?"

"Think I can make the effort," she said.

"If you two are quite finished, there _is_ a criminal mastermind at play in the Greater London area and time _is_ of the essence, inspector," Sherlock droned from the door having finished examining the body. "I need to go back to inspect the scaffolding that struck that man."

Molly sighed and said, "It's fine, I'm done."

She pressed a kiss to Greg's forehead and he smiled up at her.

"That to make it all better?" he asked.

"Naturally," she said lightly.

"I'll ring you," he said getting to his feet and heading towards the door that Sherlock had already swept through.

"Please do," she replied with a grin.

The following saw Molly back at the geography meet-up, seated towards the back with Sally. They did their best to listen to a lovely woman in her seventies named Matilda discuss Antarctica. She seemed to spend an enormous amount of time discussing types of snow which Molly found to be on the excessive side.

"Good Lord," Sally muttered. "I always thought there were two kinds of snow. Grey and yellow."

Molly swallowed a snicker. "I think we need to leave the city more often."

"You may have a point," Sally replied.

They sat and listened for another minute before Molly said quickly under her breath, "You should probably know that I'm sort of dating Greg."

Sally turned to look at her and then said, "About bloody time. The man needs someone nice and you need to get laid."

"Sally!"

"Am I wrong?"

"No, but that's not the point," Molly said, flustered. "I just wanted to tell you about it, and make sure it's well, okay."

"Would you stop dating him if it wasn't?" Sally asked.

"Not a chance," Molly said.

"Good for you. As long as we still keep these as No Blokies evenings, and you promise to never tell me any details," Sally said, "we're good."

"Good," Molly said with a smile. They listened to Matilda talk for a while longer until Molly said, "She really likes snow, doesn't she?"

"She really does."

Life went on.

Molly went to work, then to 221B for more 'war councils', and gave, in her opinion, a rather good presentation on Death Valley complete with diagrams and photos at the geography meet-up. For the first time in ages, she felt she had a life of her own that ishe/i directed.

It felt incredible.

She'd forgotten that feeling of ownership, of empowerment, of knowing that the motions you went through day after day were yours and yours alone.

She also managed to spend some wonderful hours with Greg, talking, eating, watching terrible movies from the 1970s, and she was fairly sure that she'd never made out this much with one person in her entire life.

Oh, she loved kissing him. He knew the exact way to touch her that made her boneless in his arms and she couldn't get enough.

Things hadn't progressed much further than that and while Molly had been more than happy to keep things slow at first, now she felt a simmering just beneath her skin and wondered just how one went about asking your boyfriend if they could move things along, please and thank you.

Almost a month to the day that they'd first kissed, Molly came to the conclusion that she should just say it flat out when he came over later for dinner.

She stopped short of actually practicing the words out loud as she finished up weighing Mr Jenner's kidneys. Her mobile rang as she took her gloves off and she managed to tap the speaker phone when she saw that it was Greg calling.

"Hi!" she called out.

"Molly, we think we've got him," Greg said breathlessly, sounding as though he was running. "We're going to end this today, I think."

"What? Really? How?" Molly asked.

"Well, it's something to do with explosives and water and the-"

"Thames Barrier!" Sherlock yelled in the background.

"Oh, bloody hell," Molly said flatly.

"I'll come by when this is sorted," Greg said quickly.

"Go! And be careful, yeah?" Molly said worried.

"Of course," he said and she could practically hear the grin in his voice.

She hung up and rolled her eyes. Well. All right, then. She slipped her phone into her coat pocket and figured jumping your boyfriend after he'd brought down a criminal mastermind was probably as good as any time. She smiled as she went back to her examination.

An hour later, she'd just tied off her last stitch on Mr Jenner and was washing her hands when the door to the morgue creaked open. Blimey. Saving the world hadn't taken very long.

"That was fast," she said turning. She blinked in surprise at the sight of a deliveryman holding a small parcel. "Oh! Sorry, thought you were someone else. Can I help you?"

"Yeah, got a parcel for Dr Hooper," he said looking down at his clipboard, the brim of his cap shading his eyes.

"Oh, that's me," she said drying her hands. "Just a sec."

"No worries," he said leaning against an examining table.

She finished drying her hands and walked over to him. "Surprised they let you come in," she commented, taking the clipboard from him to scrawl her name in the box. "They usually keep the parcels at reception."

"They seemed a bit busy and just waved me through," he said.

"Hmm," she said, her hand tightening on the clipboard. She paused. Took a deep breath and looked up.

The deliveryman raised his head and looked her in the eyes. "Is there a problem, miss?" he asked mildly.

"No, no problem," she said. "It's just…you have lovely cheekbones."

"My mother always said they were my best feature," he said, starting to smile.

"Well, she wasn't wrong," Molly said proud of herself for sounding so nonchalant as Sebastian Moran smiled at her.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Massive apologies for the delay in finishing this fic! But here's the last chapter and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

"My mother always said they were my best feature," he said, starting to smile.

"Well, she wasn't wrong," Molly said proud of herself for sounding so natural considering who was standing only two feet away from her.

Sebastian Moran smiled fully at her and sighed a bit.

"Well, now that's sorted, I don't really need these anymore," he said before taking off his cap revealing his dark hair, the fluorescent lights reflected in his very blue eyes. He tossed the parcel on the table next to him.

"Anything good?" she asked nodding at the parcel.

"Just a few rolls of bubblewrap, I'm afraid," he said, his gaze very steady on her face.

"Shame," she said. "So…how does this work? Are you going to kill me and shove my body into one of the empty lockers?"

"No," he said chuckling. "Nothing so clichéd. I just wanted to meet you, really."

"Why?" she asked, genuinely confused.

"Because you succeeded where I failed," he said. "You kept him alive. How long did you have to plan his death?"

"About four hours," she said.

He shook his head. "Amazing. Jim planned for weeks."

"I suppose I wanted to see the supporting cast," he said. "In my original line of work, I tend to keep things at a distance. Bird's eye view of things, you know." He shrugged. "But now that I'm the head of things, I thought it would be nice to see what was so special about Sherlock's second-best."

"Excuse me?" she said confused.

"Well, you are," he said. "Second-best. You and John Watson and your dear Detective Inspector, you're all only bit players in this grand play they started." He smiled at her. "Don't take it personally, Miss Hooper. I'm in the same position. We don't have their brilliance. We don't shine nearly so brightly."

Molly just stared at him. It wasn't as though what he was saying wasn't anything she hadn't thought of and perhaps a month ago she would have agreed with him and felt all sad and regretted her lot in life. But that was then.

Now?

Well, now she had her own life and her own pursuits and she was darned if this bloke was going to shove her into the wings. If she wasn't so bloody pissed off, she might have felt sorry for him.

"Bollocks," she said.

His face went blank. "Excuse me?"

"I said, 'Bollocks'," she repeated. "You might have been happy to be Jim's little shadow, but I'm certainly not. So, just cut to the chase, Sebastian and tell me what your little plan that's doomed to fail is."

_Oh, that might not have been the smartest thing to say_, she thought when Moran's eyes turned icy and narrowed. Well, too late now and Molly lifted her chin as she narrowed her own eyes back at him.

"Careful Molly," he said. "Don't get ahead of yourself. Now, you're going to come with me, and we'll contact Sherlock and see what shakes loose. Sadly, all this chatting has put me slightly behind schedule. So, be a good girl and come along now."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she said quietly.

He tilted his head to the side. "Don't make this difficult, Miss Hooper."

"It's Doctor, actually." she said and then she swung her arm out, the clipboard hitting Moran against the side of his face. He grunted as he fell on his side onto an examining table and Molly dashed away.

She headed for the exit, but Moran recovered quickly and was right on her heels. He crashed into her and sent them both tumbling to the floor. Molly yelped when she felt her ankle turn as she went down, but she still kicked and flailed just enough to scramble away from him. She tried to get to her feet by grasping for the instruments' table, but Moran grabbed her bad ankle and pulled.

Molly and the instruments crashed to the floor.

"No!" she shouted as she kicked out with her foot and grabbed the closest object to throw at him, which happened to be the chest spreaders. They hit Moran in the chest and, surprised, he let her ankle go. She got to her feet and headed for the doors again.

She noticed out of the corner of her eye that he grabbed a scalpel off the floor, but she kept going, bursting through the doors into the hallway. She ran as fast as she could with her ankle screaming in pain and she almost made it to the main doors that led into the hallway, but Moran tackled her.

They skidded along the floor before they both thudded into a trolley carrying old equipment bound for storage.

"You just couldn't be the quiet little mouse," Moran said, his blue eyes bright and angry. "You had to try to _prove_ yourself. Give it up, _Miss_ Hooper."

"Sod off!" she snarled and jabbed her hand at his face, striking his nose.

She heard a crack and Moran howled as he made a slicing motion with his arm. Molly shoved him off her and scrabbled to get to her feet while he was still down.

Halfway to her feet, her eyes pinned to Moran as he glared up at her, his nose bleeding freely, her hands grabbed the nearest heavy object and, as the doors at the end of the hallway flew open, she swung with all her might.

The outdated microscope did the job wonderfully as it struck Moran's head. His eyes went blank and he slumped to the floor.

Gasping and trembling, Molly dropped the microscope to the floor where it clattered and she covered her mouth with her hands.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God," she said squeezing her eyes shut.

"Molly!" Greg's voice came from down the hall.

She looked over and saw him, along with John, Sherlock and some gentlemen in black suits, running towards her.

"Hi," she said, her voice scratchy. "Is the Thames Barrier still in one piece?"

"Marginally," Sherlock said as Greg reached her and ran his hands over her head as he peered down at her.

"You all right?" he asked. "Christ, we got there and realized we'd been had and that-"

"We hadn't been 'had," Sherlock said rolling his eyes even as he studied Moran's prone position on the floor. "We found plenty to deal with."

"_And_," Greg continued through gritted teeth, "That this bastard was after you. Fucking hell, Molly. Are you all right?"

She nodded. "I think so? Is he?"

"He'll live," John said looking Moran over even as some men in black suits swarmed around them. "Hell of a headache, though. Nice aim, Doctor Hooper."

"It was a big microscope," she said blinking as her vision swam slightly. "Blimey. That adrenalin's a crazy thing. I can't believe I knocked him out."

"I can," Greg said before pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. "Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head and closed her eyes when the world spun. "My ankle's a bit sprained."

"Watson," Greg said. "Check her ankle."

"Yeah, of course," John said coming over.

A loud groan came from Moran as he was handcuffed. He whipped his head up and glared at Sherlock who simply arched an eyebrow at him.

"Jim was clearly the brains of the outfit, wasn't he?" Sherlock said to him.

"Maybe," Moran said, blood from his nose stained his teeth as he grinned. "But I had you going, didn't I?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said leaning down to stare into his face. "But you were clearly no match for my pathologist."

Molly's mouth quirked a bit at that statement and Greg squeezed her upper arm as she leaned into him.

Moran glared and sneered at Sherlock as he was handcuffed by the men in black. His eyes left Sherlock to focus on Molly and he grinned. Her eyes narrowed in return as she refused to be cowed by this man. She'd broken his bloody nose with a blooming microscope.

"Still only second-best, Molly," he said from the ground. "That's all we ever are to them."

She snorted. "Yeah, well, at least I'm not the second-best who failed, am I?"

His eyes deadened and he didn't remove them from her face as he was hauled to his feet and frog-marched out the door. Molly refused to look away and she felt the warmth of Greg standing behind her.

As they took him out the door, he called out, "Delicious meeting you, Miss Hooper."

"It's Doctor Hooper," she said flatly. "Better get that nose checked, hadn't you?"

She sighed and slumped even more into Greg the minute Moran was out of sight.

"Well, congratulations, Doctor Hooper," Sherlock said. "It appears you have yourself your very own enemy."

"Oh, shut it," she said. "He's your enemy, not mine."

"I didn't knock him unconscious with a microscope," he said. "That honour fell to you. I believe you've made quite the lasting impression."

"Oh, well, that's not good," Molly said absently.

Because it wasn't. Having an enemy wasn't good. It was terrible. It wasn't something to be happy about. It was certainly not something to be—

"You're proud of this, aren't you?" Greg asked.

Molly looked at him with wide eyes. "No! Of course not."

He just kept looking at her; his mouth quivering slightly as he tried to hide his amusement. She cringed. "Maybe a little?"

"Oh, come now, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "How many villains are languishing away in prison thanks to you? And how many of them wouldn't love to see you come to some kind of a sticky end?"

"Fair few, probably," Greg admitted.

"Then allow Molly to revel in her accomplishment," Sherlock said.

"You're all mad," John said and Molly laughed. Then she swayed a little.

"Oh," she said blinking. The room swam in front of her eyes.

"Molly?" Greg's voice sounded distant.

"It's the adrenalin," she said faintly.

"No, it's not." John's voice was stern. "Molly, what happened to your arm? You're bleeding."

She looked down at her arm and saw red quickly seeping through her white lab coat. "Oh, he did get me, didn't he?"

She pulled her sleeve back and her eyes widened at the sight of the deep gash in her arm. "Straight through the muscle. Goodness. It's a sloppy cut though." She looked up at Greg's incredibly worried face. "Mine are much neater."

Then her knees gave out.

Ten minutes later, she was perched on an exam table, in a proper exam room, not the morgue, as she watched John stitch up a rather deep cup on her arm. She wrinkled her nose when she looked at her ruined jumper and lab coat. The jumper had been one of her favourites, as had the lab coat.

"I'll buy you a new one," Greg said as he rejoined her after having directed his team to sweep the morgue for any further surprises.

She smiled at him. "I like big pockets."

"I'll remember," he said as he propped himself against her exam table. She leaned her head against his shoulder as she sighed and turned her attention back to the stitches being placed in her arm.

"That is some lovely stitching, Doctor Watson," Molly said not moving her head from Greg's shoulder.

"Why, thank you, Doctor Hooper," John said with a smile. "Coming from such a steady hand as yourself, that's quite the compliment."

Molly smiled and then grinned as Sally poked her head around the privacy curtain. "Hi Sally!"

"Hey you," Sally said shaking her head as she looked at Molly's wound. "Ouch."

"Tell me about it," Molly said.

"Don't think is getting you out of your talk later this week," Sally said. "I was looking forward to hearing about polar deserts."

"Just wait till I tell you all about the freeze-thaw," Molly said waving her good hand. "This is just a flesh wound."

Sally winked at her and then headed back into the fray.

"Don't you need to be bossing them about?" she asked Greg.

"They're fine," he said pressing a kiss to her temple. "I'm where I want to be. Unless you want me to go…?"

She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. "I really don't."

"Good," he said, sounding highly satisfied.

"You know, it's not that I'm not happy that you two are, apparently, you two," John muttered. "but I owe Mary twenty quid because of you two. You couldn't have held out for another month?"

Molly grinned at him. "Nope."

**Epilogue**

"You know what I like best about this show?" Greg said as he sprawled on Molly's sofa watching a re-run of _Lewis_ while she looked over a recent paper. Her head rested on his thigh as she took up most of the sofa.

"The hot blonde in the pathology department?" Molly offered, arching an eyebrow as she tilted her head back to look at him.

"What can I say? I have a type," Greg said pressing a slow kiss to the top of her head. "But I was actually referring to the fact that they show all the paperwork and the bloody phone calls that make up the majority of an investigation." He paused. "Although they do seem to just stumble over clues and dead bodies with pinpoint accuracy."

"If they didn't, it'd be longer than two hours," Molly pointed out.

"Are you a Hathaway or a Lewis fan?" he asked after a few minutes.

"Well, there's no denying that Hathaway's quite the dish," Molly said smirking. "But there's something about that Geordie accent of Lewis'…"

She felt Greg shift and she looked up to see him considering her. "What?"

"Canny netty that, like," he said affecting a Geordie accent and arched his eyebrows at her.

Molly laughed. "Oh my God, that was dreadful!"

He laughed and she couldn't help it, she lifted her face to his and kissed him. He grinned against her lips and the kiss turned hot and slow and, dare she say it, dirty, instantly.

"Christ, Molly," he said as they maneuvered themselves on the couch, Molly beneath him, her leg wrapped over his hip. "You make me feel like a bloody teenager. Eager and all handsy."

"I think I know what you mean," she said while he kissed his way down her throat and slipped a hand up her shirt to cup her breast. "Oh, God."

"Molly," he murmured. "I want… Ah, Christ, Molly."

"Yes," she said against her lips. "Now, yes. Bed."

"Yeah," he said as they managed to get themselves off the sofa without injury and into Molly's bedroom.

* * *

The next evening, Molly sat chatting with some of the other society members before the scheduled talk when Sally arrived. The other woman gave her a very arch look as she sat down next to her without saying a word.

Molly blinked as she looked at her. "Sally? Something wrong?"

"No, not really," Sally said. "Just… Do you think you could say something to Lestrade about not looking so bloody smug after he gets laid? It's affecting morale."

Molly choked on air and smacked Sally on the arm. "I'll do no such thing!"

Sally hmph'd while Molly frowned.

Her frown slowly morphed into a little smile. "He actually looked smug?"

Sally covered her face with her hands and Molly just laughed.

This whole having a life of one's own had been such a good idea.


End file.
